1812
by ResidentPyromaniac
Summary: After each fight, Russia would always approach France. “Are you sure you do not wish to surrender?” He would ask, the deceptively innocent smile on his face and the blood of his men staining his coat.


**Note:** First off, this is what I get for liking Hetalia and actually paying attention in History class. Also, I'm not very good at writing stories with just canon characters. I'm working on that one, though. Now that I've said that…

**WARNING: Extreme inaccuracies of the historical kind**. I purposely switched around the seasons a bit, because I wanted to use Winter and I couldn't really think of how to do so and actually keep the timeline of events. You have my sincerest apologies. Please, ignore the inaccuracies, sit back, and enjoy the fic.

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It was cold. France could feel General Winter's icy fingers at his throat. His men were dying. Their hunger gnawed at his stomach. His insides froze from within as they perished. Their anguished cries echoed in his ears. He would endure. He had to endure. This pain was nothing compared to what he had felt during the Revolution, during the Reign of Terror. His emperor had made him strong. France repeated it in his head, over and over.

General Winter laughed, overjoyed to have such a helpless target. Russia was nowhere to be seen. Russia had retreated farther into his lands. Russia had burned the ground, leaving nothing but ash and the rotting carcasses of livestock for France's men. Russia had left, and Winter fought in his stead.

All France needed was to endure. Winter could not fight forever. The world would turn and the seasons would shift, and he would have to leave. His men must avoid starvation, and survive in this vast, frozen land. If they could, then Winter would leave. Their strength would return. France would find Russia. And Russia would pay for betraying France.

Because France was strong. Napoleon had made France strong. And those who betrayed him would suffer the consequences.

France would endure. He would not fall to anyone or anything.

Time passed. General Winter released France and what was left of his men. Many of them were dead. Many others were ill. France still pressed on. He could tell that they were drawing closer.

There were a few times when France saw Russia, when their men met in battle. There were always huge casualties on each side. Russia's men fought as though they feared a fate far worse than death at the hands of the Grande Armée.

After each fight, Russia would always approach France. "Are you sure you do not wish to surrender?" He would ask, the deceptively innocent smile on his face and the blood of his men staining his coat.

"You should be the one considering surrender," France would hiss in reply, no matter how tired he was, no matter how injured the battle had left him. And Russia's smile would simply grow wider before he turned and left in silence.

France was weakened. His normally perfect hair became filthy and matted. His body had grown gaunt and bruised. Blood and grime were smeared across his face. Even so, he would not back down. He would not stop until Russia had met his just punishment. France would capture Moscow, and the rest of the nation would fall to him.

There was a point where plans collapsed. France kept pushing forward from blind fury and sheer determination alone. Everywhere his men went, they were met with the burned earth left behind by Russia and his people. Starvation grew worse, but France no longer cared as much. He just had to capture Moscow.

Moscow was empty. Silence reigned in the abandoned streets. France was wary, refusing to believe that the city had actually been evacuated. Russia would not abandon his heart. He must have been waiting for France to lower his guard, and then launch a sneak attack.

Even with nearly three-quarters of his men dead, such an attack would not stop France. He sent his men out to search for food and shelter, ordering them to remain wary at all times. Sometimes, his men saw one or two Russians, trying to avoid the army. Neither France nor his men could fathom what was happening until nightfall. By then, it was too late.

Moscow burned. The flames ate at the buildings despite the efforts of France and his men. Panic reigned in the city. Any Russian unfortunate to encounter the remains of the Grande Armée was immediately shot under suspicion of arson.

France was furious beyond words. He had come this far and fought this hard, only to have Russia deprive him of righteous victory. That a nation, any nation, would do that to himself…

France turned at the sound of a familiar laugh, low and intimidating. Russia was casually leaning against a building, even as it burned. He calmly smiled at France, the same childish grin that he always wore, completely undisturbed by the blood seeping through the front of his coat. "I will only ask once more," He said. "Are you sure you do not wish to surrender?"

"You're crazy," France replied, his words hollow. Russia merely laughed again.

"That is not an answer," he said, mockingly.

France hung his head. He could feel his power slipping. He was no longer strong. He would not be able to defeat Russia. The campaign was a disaster. "I will leave as soon as possible."

Russia's laughter would haunt him for years to come.

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**Another note:** Augh! It's so short! Please don't shoot me... But feel free to yell at me via review. Reviews are nice, yes?


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